Brand at once rose, and went out from the shadow of the trees, to pay
his respects to the two young ladies.

"How do you do, Miss D'Agincourt? How do you do, Miss Frances?"

Certainly no one would have suspected these two very graceful and
pleasant-looking girls of being madcap creatures at home. The elder was
a tall and slightly-built blonde, with large gray eyes set wide apart;
the younger a gentle little thing, with brownish eyes, freckles, and a
pretty mouth.

"Mamma?" said the eldest daughter, in answer to his inquires. "Oh, she
is behind, bringing up the rear, as it were. We have to go in
detachment, or else the police would come and read the riot act against
us. Francie and I are the vanguard; and she feels such a good little
girl, marching along two and two, just as if she were back at Brighton."

The clear gray eyes--quite demure--glanced in toward the shadows of the
trees.

"I see you have got Evelyn there, Mr. Brand. Who is the extraordinary
person he is always talking about now--the Maid of Saragossa, or Joan of
Arc, or something like that? Do you know her?"

"I suppose you mean Miss Lind."

"I know he has persuaded mamma to go and call on her, and get her to
dine with us, if she will come. Now, I call that kind."

"If she accepts, you mean?"